The mists above have been a prickling, horrible dread in the back of all but the most devout or brave of kinds in recent days, it seems. It is no different for this Troll, who despite his fellowship with the small folk cannot help but find anxiety weighing heavily upon him, growing more severe day after day. Living underground like rats had put a sour, bitter taste on his tongue after so many weeks.

Well, he had never been a terribly faithful creature. Interested in food, greedy, hungry for the pleasures of taste more than of devotion. That would change, soon, as he began to seek the means to change his situation. The Mist was a threat that needed to be delt with in order for him to continue to enjoy the pleasures of his life, that was clear. So soon did he begin attempts to commute with the god of the Trolls, but the cursed tail put a stop to those attempts quickly. Eventually,​ his desperate searching led to a source. A root of desperation and evil that would surely accept to give a mote of power to a creature so despoiled and abandoned by it's own God. ​Methanos.

The deal was a simple one, decidedly simple in fact. In return for this might, this opportunity to change the state of the world which he lived, in return for agency the Archdevil asked only one thing; innovation. New incantations, new magics, a new spell to be created. Now, this Troll is not intelligent. Nor is he wise. So, of course, the deal was taken with little consideration or resistance, as the ravenous changes began. Adaptation, the cornerstone of Troll biology, took full effect. The color would drain from his skin until only gray flesh remained, the jaundice of the eyes would set in as the corrupt magics of Hell did their foul work upon his body. He was being made little more than a minion, but the poor fool had no idea of the true consequences of his decision, for now he had begun the slow reversion. A return to form. Hungry again as a Troll should be, a distraction further from being able to complete his side of the deal. Greedy, hungry, again. Not just for food, but for power, for influence, for all the things a Devil may desire but with none of the skillsets to attain them. His tongue elongated, splitting like that of a viper as the hellish magic finishes it's cruel work, the understanding of the devilish language suddenly upon him.

Blow away the Mist. Take it for your own. The world is your's to consume, not it's. Let the pit of hunger in your stomach grow until only the satisfaction of total victory can quench it's pain. Whatever you were before, now you are Varkathaar Traskaat, and you belong to Him.